His finger lightly touches the bottom of my chin, and he pushes my face upwards so that I'm looking into his eyes. Eyes that are solely on my lips.
I can't help it. I bite them.
"Oh, Delta," he whispers, quietly giggling under his breath. His laugh...
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XAVIER
"Careful 'er, sport," Kenny says, watching me take a swing at the punching bag in front of me. "Steady now."
I'm sweating vigorously but I continue to push, throwing combos forward, then stepping back.
" 'At a boy," he grunts. "Now hit it with a three-way."
I do as he says, swiftly blitzing the bag and landing a rough side kick, causing it to swing backwards and fall off the hook.
"Ye done good," he says, patting me on the shoulder. "Ye done good."
I pant hard, trying to steady the rapid beating of my heart as I rip off the velcro gloves on my hands. My muscles feel cramped, and I can practically spot the veins bulging from my arms and my legs.
"Keep it up 'n you'll be ready for tomorruh in no time."
He walks over to the bag, bends down, then attempts to pick it up.
"I'll get it Ken," I tell him.
I can't bare to watch him pick that thing up, scared out of my mind his back will suddenly give out under the weight. I wrap my arms around the bottom, effortlessly picking it up from the ground and placing it back on its hook.
He sighs. "My bones can't handle this anymore."
Kenny is old enough to be my grandfather, give or take a few years. He may be old, but I can't imagine his personality being anywhere over the age of 20. He's an old-fashion biker; leather jacket, two sleeves full of tattoos, a motorcycle, and everything else.
Ever since he offered me Foster's place, he treated me like his very own son.
I self-consciously rub the small tattoo on my bare chest, staring at my naked skin compared to his. It's like looking at a blank canvas compared to a Picasso painting.
"I miss him too," Kenny starts, walking over to the small refrigerator by the brick wall and grabbing a water bottle and a beer. He hands me the bottle, cracking open the metal lid on his glass with his bare hands. "The world took 'em too soon."
I frown at him, opening the water and taking a long, hard sip. I never liked talking about him, and Kenny knows that. But it isn't my place to tell him what he can or cannot talk about. He cared about the kid just as much as I did.
"What if he was still alive?" I ask him. "What if he ever found out I became just like him?"
Kenny doesn't answer right away, gulping down most of his beer like a cold cup of tea. His short white beard grazes the glass bottle, and he unknowingly taps it against his chin emptying the rest of the contents in a single swing. "Say, I honestly don't know sport."
Sport. He always used to call him that. Now, he uses the nickname for me just as often.
I thump my fist over my heart, trying to stop the tears from falling down my cheeks.
